The Democratic press. [volume] (Ravenna, O. [Ohio]) 1868-1901, 1887-07-28
A STRANGE TALE.

A bright moonlight night. The
river, dark and sullen, moved in its
rocky bed like some gigantic serpent
half overcome by the lethargy of
sleep.
Here and there the moonbeams fell
upon the surface of the water, great
spots of Alvery whiteness amidst the
dark shadows cast by the heavy foliage
of the cedar shrubbery, which grew
between the almost perpendicular
rocks of the high banks.
Fifty feet above the surface of the
water they reared themselves, and at
oae point they jutted forward as if to
salute each other, while the river be-
meath them deepened and narrowed.
At this point a bridge had once been
thrown across-a bridge which had
become a complete ruin, one timber
alone remaining to mark the spot, one
long and narrow beam-it could not
have been more than six inches in
width-still maintained its place, and
in mute language informed the strang-
er that once there had been connec-
ton between Rocky Hill and the
mountains on the other side.
Upon the surface of the river there
was a small rowboat, containing a
slender crouching form wrapped in
dark cloak.
From the top of the bank upon
either side this rowboat would have
been invisible, but it was there, MAX
ing its way up and down past the
rocky buttress which upheld the beam,
always avoiding the moonlit spots up
on the river.
The sounds of carousal were usurp-
ing the place of the quiet of the night;
the drunken jest and the coarse laugh
ter breaking in upon the sentimental
notes of ''Home, Sweet Home," sung,
you would have averred, by some
lonely youth who was far from the
scenes of his boyhood, came plainly
to the ears of this silent watcher upon
the river, who, it seemed, could not
tear herself away from the sounds
which came from the saloon upon the
rivers bank.
Once only did the moonbeams fall
upon her fair upturned face.
1t was the face of woman who
should never have been in that wild
lonely spot, listening for the sound of
voice that had grown to address her
with refined words which were the
cruellest of the cruel, waiting there
upon that lonely river, for-she knew
not what.
Muriel Warner was the daughter of
wealthy parents. She had married,
when very young, young man whom
she had worshiped as the embodiment
of manly beauty. Friends and rela-
tiyes had crowded about her with en-
vious congratulations, and for time
her life was perfect happiness.
But change had come. Fred War
ner was not what he had seemed.
Only few short weeks of happiness,
and the handsome husband plunged
into the widest dissipation.
Friends remained to her as long as
the money remained, and then they
began to hint that perhaps MtIriel was
not altogether blameless.
This was something which the
spirited wife could not stand. She
broke with relatives and friends, and
clung to the dissipated man who was
her husband
From one city to another he had
dragged her with him, and now he
had deserted her, and she had followed
him.
His was the cultured voice which
warbled of ''Home, Sweet Home,
while his wife was a penniless half
crazed creature out upon the river.
And she was penniless, for, regard
less of food or shelter, she had paid
out her last coin for the use of the
boat which brought her, unseen, yet
nearer to him.
A quick sharp report broke in upon
the mellow voice of the singer.
1t was repeated again and again.
1t was the report of a revolver.
Muriel could hear the excited shouts,
the heavy trampling of feet, the bang
ing of door, and then the weird cry,
'sMurder!''
Half paralysed, the frightened
woman rested upon her oars just
under the beam which had once be-
longed to the old bridge.
The sound of heavy feet, rapidly
approaching, came from the bank
close at hand, and then dark form
rushed out between her and the moon
lit sky above her.
1t was a mans figure, and he was
attempting to cross the river upon the
narrow beam.
Excited shouts and the tramp of
hurried feet followed him to the rivers
brink.
''Stopp shouted voice. 81 arrest
you for murder"
No reply came from the escaping
figure, which sped nimbly along its
narrow way.
A sharp chorus of revolvers fol-
lowed; shot after shot was fired, and
then the dark figure wavered, the
hands grasped wildly at the air, and
then there was a fall.
The water deluged Muriel with a
shower of drops as the body entered
the water. Shouts and the exultant
retreating voices held her attention
until she felt something creeping into
the boat behind her.
She turned and uttered faint
shrek.
A man, and more, than likely the
murderer, had taken possession of her
little craft.
.Give me the oars" said stern
musical voice.
"You are not wounded, thenP" she
said, shrinking away from the dripF
ping figure.
Il am not wounded" returned the
voice, and then silently the boat was
rowed into the deepest shadows and
up the stream.
Moment after moment crept by.
The moon went down, darkness fell
entirely over the sluggish waves of the
river, and yet the strange pair were
silent.
The high banks disappeared, the
stream grew narrower, and at length
the stranger drew the boat close up to
the shore.
Madame" said the figure, bending
close up to Muriel, sstell me what you